No Good Deed
by Aroochick
Summary: Moriarty may be dead, Sherlock may have an unsolvable case, 221C may get an occupant, and a vigilante may join the party. A woman trying to outrun her grief is unwittingly tangled in Sherlock's world, and neither are happy about it. Not a romance! M for violence, adult language and dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

****My first Sherlock story! I've written for another fandom for many years (under the name Bujyo,) but the muses needed a change of scenery. I can only hope I do them justice. My stories tend to be lengthy and involved, but I hope, interesting :) Please enjoy, and if you feel the urge, review!****

****Takes place about 8 months after the end of S3. Usual disclaimers and such like. ****

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><p><em>'Cause there's a monster, living under my bed, whispering in my ear.<em>

_There's an angel, with a hand on my head, she say I've got nothing to fear._

_There's a darkness, living deep in my soul, I still got a purpose to serve._

_So let your light shine, deep into my home, God, don't let me lose my nerve,_

_Don't let me lose my nerve._

_- Everlast & Santana_

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><p>He tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently. <em>Tap-taptaptap-tap-tap…tatatap<em>. A habit he barely noticed anymore unless it was called to his attention. Which, if the receptionist's expression was any predictor, was going to be very soon.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, "Do I need to go back there and retrieve it myself?"

The receptionist frowned. "You're not allowed in the evidence room, sir. I'm sure your parcel will arrive shortly."

Now he eyed the young man scribbling in the attendance log with a sneer. Of _course _he wasn't allowed in the evidence room. No one was allowed behind the secured Plexiglass except the Evidence Custodian and his staff, everyone knew that. At least, everyone who worked at the MET, which his badge plainly showed he did. His badge that the receptionist was fondling as he continued to make scratches in the log. What was the man writing? There should be an 'IN' box, an 'OUT' box and the numerical file number of the requested item.

He craned his neck to get a better look at the clerk's note. Couldn't quite see…

It made him suspicious, and his finger tapping stopped as he rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. He tried not to glance up at the camera trained on the reception window as tendrils of paranoia crawled down his neck and under his overcoat. Damned cameras. They were in the evidence lab now too. Watching. He began to furiously pick at a loose string inside his coat pocket.

This whole task of reexamining trace evidence swabs was utterly ridiculous! Ever since the Moriarty scare eight months ago the requests for reexamination of…everything…had been forced upon him and his department and he was damned sick of it. Tedious, redundant endeavors that wasted his time and kept him from being assigned to the more impressive cases. Cases that _He_ consulted upon. Cases that drew in important people; people that should know about impressive forensic work. But, no. Instead, his department's work was questioned and scrutinized and his own name buried under innuendos of incompetence. The Detective Inspectors danced to the whims of their higher-ups and declined to "clutter" the crime scenes with extraneous personnel because one arrogant sod in a ridiculous hat was going to save them from a nonexistent megalomaniac and couldn't be bothered with "underlings." So convenient that _He_ didn't follow the normal processes for gathering evidence, which left a mess for the forensic department to clean up. A mess that they were then expected to fix after the giant git tromped through.

Everyone was too concerned about previous blunders to have the courage to stand up to the man. They chose to ignore his arrogance and self-serving pomp, instead worshiping at the hem of a Belstaff where obeisance could hide humiliation. No care to the man's blatant disregard of the chain of evidence at a crime scene; refusal of protective equipment and touching whatever he bloody chose. His _deducing_ not to be hindered by mere protocol.

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Wanker. The man was a menace, that's what he was.

"_Sherlock needs these blood samples re-analysed."_

"_This DNA swab wasn't processed with the correct titers, Sherlock needs it done correctly this time."_

"_Sherlock says you missed five types of carpet fibres from the back of the suspect's lorry. You need to reprocess the entire vehicle this weekend."_

Sherlock _Fucking_ Holmes.

"Sir."

He jerked his head around, startled, as the young man spoke to him while scanning a medium sized box with a red evidence seal on it. "I've logged the parcel out to your supervision. It will be expected to be returned or continued within twenty four hours -"

"Yes," he cut the receptionist off with a wave and a glare. "I'm aware of the rules. I'm rather familiar with the process after twelve years."

The clerk sighed and walked over to wave the box under yet another scanner before bringing it back to the window and handing it over, along with the badge.

He grabbed both and turned to stride down the hallway, still stewing about Sherlock Holmes.

Officious, tyrannical, rude…and utterly ignorant, in his opinion, on how a proper investigation should be conducted. Treating educated professionals as menial servants as if they had no clue as to their jobs. Someone should make the cocky bastard doubt his own abilities. Show Sherlock what it's like to have one's credibility bludgeoned day in and day out.

He shouldered through an interior door and snorted softly as he recalled the detective's supposed suicide all those years ago. Someone _had_ put him in his place…for a while. Oh, the uproar, finger-pointing and bickering! Blame spattered about like alley offal. It was truly glorious to watch. And for a short while the name of Sherlock Holmes was mud. Too short a while, in his opinion.

The MET had finally been restored to proper order and there had been recognitions and certificates, and a number of forensic staff, including himself, appeared to have a chance to advance further. Then the damned man returned and derailed everything. _Everything_.

Sherlock Holmes…prodigal son. A hero. A changed man. Everyone had been fooled for a short while and thought the man had changed.

_Bullshit_.

Some lessons aren't learned the first time. Some lessons need to be repeated, repeated…beaten…

The corner of the evidence package bit into his palm and he loosened his grip and drew in a deep breath. Another. _Calm_. The cameras.

A proper lesson, he recalled his university professor saying, must often be taught with personal ramifications. Ramifications that could not be escaped. Ramifications that could follow you even through death.

Mr. Holmes needed further education in humility; a reminder of his place. Turn the tables on the World's Most Annoying Consultant from within his own ranks and scrape the film of adoration from the public's roving eye. It was time to sink Sherlock Holmes back into the depths of loathsome notoriety.

There had to be a way to use the man's work against him. To cast doubt on all that he had claimed victory over and make everyone believe…_yes_.

He stopped suddenly just inside the lobby as the idea blossomed, amazed at his own genius.

_Yes!_ It was brilliant…_he_ was brilliant. It was perfect.

He smiled now as he hurried across the crowded lobby towards the front doors. It was snowing outside, and he ran headlong into a custody nurse who had paused inside the doors to stomp off her shoes. The woman cursed at him and he tossed her a rude gesture as he continued outside. No time for common courtesy…he had a mission.

**-o-o-o-**

"_Couillon_!"

Jo spat the insult at the man's back as he rebounded off her and just kept walking through the door. Half of her chai was now soaking into her overcoat and the odd looking man hadn't even paused. _Jesus_. The one damn luxury she allowed herself on the way to work…

For half a minute she considered walking back over to the Starbucks at the St. James tube entrance for a refill. Glancing outside, the thought was squashed. Her sneakers were already soaked after the two blocks to the MET in this slush, no use risking frostbite at this point for a return trip. She really needed to get some of those winter rain boots. 'Wellies,' yeah, that's what they were called. Need to put those on the mental shopping list.

"Or maybe there just needs to be fewer rude assholes in this city," she muttered, dabbing at the spilled drink with her scarf.

Actually, the wellies were a good idea, especially since she had little extra funds to replace water damaged shoes. And this climate consumed shoes.

She was not as prepared for the London winters as she had thought. Cold, yes, but the never-ending _wet_ was the stickler. Rain, snow, fog…rainy snowy fog…the crowded city was afflicted daily by Mother Nature's hypothermic menopause. Even the weatherman threw his hands up in despair by the beginning of November…pretty sure he was on vacation in Spain until March. Seems like a valid plan.

She pulled off her hat and shook her hair out while trying to juggle beverage and backpack as she headed further into the lobby.

_Well, Jo, that's why you came here, right?_ The internal reminder had her straightening her shoulders. Something completely different. Challenging, with few reminders of home. Uncomfortable.

The uncomfortable requirement was certainly pegged. And, despite the familiarity of the language, London was far different than New Orleans. She was too tired to learn a new language; that was her only concession to herself with the move. London was perfect, actually. No half-breed bayou prejudice, no bastardized sing-song French drizzling out of worn speakers on every street corner, a complete absence of hoodoo crap being hawked in every store...

She put a halt to that train of thought. Soon it would round the tracks to fresh pastries on the Landing, warm sultry days with the smell of hibiscus in the air, zydeco tunes drifting down the bayous, and all the things she loved about the city. No more. That part of her life was over and done, never to be revisited. She refused to live in the past…or the future for that matter. The present was only barely tolerable. Day to day and nothing more. And sometimes the day to day was iffy.

She scanned her badge at the employee elevators and frowned as she had to retreat all the way to the back of the car to let a low-rank officer maneuver in a mail cart. He stared at the front of her coat. He appeared to be barely pubescent.

"Er, miss, you've got some…"

"Yes, thank you," Jo snapped, cutting him off, "I'm aware."

"Oy," he smiled, "you a Canadian, then?"

Jo sighed. "Do I sound Canadian to you?"

The officer's smile faltered. "Er, well, no…I suppose…"

The doors slid open and Jo squeezed past the cart to the exit. "Stick to sorting mail, boy, your detective skills need a lot of work."

The noise hit her right before the smell. Beyond the securely enclosed monitoring station Jo could see a dozen or so potential inmates sitting quietly in the orange plastic chairs, staring at the chaotic scene that seemed to be the source of the cacophony: three guards attempting to subdue two female prisoners seemingly intent upon stomping a third, male prisoner. The unfortunate male appeared to have soiled himself. All were yelling except one, and she was wailing.

Jo, thankful for the wall to ceiling bars between her and the mayhem, stepped over to key herself into the monitoring center.

"Oh ho! It's Betsy Ross," called an intake sergeant, all smiles. "We've got some special crumpets for you tonight!"

Jo sneered and flipped him the finger as she turned down the short hall to the lockers, irritated. She had hoped for a quiet night in the MET's holding center. Considering it was mid-week, the moon was new, and there was at least two inches of slush covering everything, one would expect the idiots to stay under their rocks. Apparently not. By the looks of the melee participants, an unfortunate pimp had run into some severely disgruntled employees.

"Hell, I'd be pissed too if I had to wear those skirts and shoes in this weather." Jo grinned to herself.

She rifled through her backpack for her pens, penlight and stethoscope, then tossed the bag into the locker with her coat and scarf. Stopping briefly at the sink, she washed her hands and checked her appearance in the mirror.

Her short, nearly black hair was doing its best impression of an angry, damp hedgehog after 45 minutes under a hat, and she ran her fingers through it to tame the worst. Hazel eyes stared back at her from what she considered a plain, non-offensive face. A few freckles, some well-earned wrinkles around her eyes and across her forehead, and a small cleft in her chin. High cheekbones, likely from some Native American lineage, but pale skin from her mother's German heritage…and England's climate. Her _mamere_ always said she looked like her father. She'd have to take the woman's word for it. She'd never seen him.

She certainly got her mother's height, though, all 5 foot 3 inches of it. _That's 160cm, you dolt_, she reminded herself. Her metric brain, though fairly well honed in her former life, refused to rise to the forefront of her mind even here. At least she could do the mental conversions quickly by this point.

Tightening the drawstring on her scrub pants, Jo headed out to the medical bays. She was hoping to have time to research flat rentals online tonight…maybe peruse some 10K or half marathon offerings too. She needed another race pretty soon. It had been nearly four weeks since the last 5K and she was restless. Mandatory training for her second job with HEMS had put the kibosh on weekend races and she was feeling slow. Too bad there weren't any obstacle course races during the winter. She sighed. A good, cold, miserable obstacle course race is really what she needed. The demons were restless just beneath the surface again, and she wasn't keen on dealing with them anytime soon. She had to keep moving…keep training. There had to be something…

"Ah, Miss Wakefield, welcome to the insanity."

David, the day nurse manager, greeted her with a cheesy grin as she entered the medical bay.

"I swear, David, you order these crazies up special for me." Jo granted him a small smile as she clocked in and fingerprinted into the pyxis system. "And I just bet I'm the only one here tonight," she glanced up, "right?"

David leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his belly and tried a drawl, "Why, darlin', however did you guess?"

Jo grimaced. "Please, never,_ ever_, attempt Rhett Butler again. The South already died once." She hopped up to sit on the counter and grabbed the census sheet. "Fifteen on deck, two in the hole, and four on the skids. Not too bad, I suppose. So long as there's no full cavities involved?"

"Already finished," David replied, standing to grab his phone and jacket. "I had Helen process the last two "ladies" before she left. Chelsea will be in at 11, but until then it's just you. You've got seven DNA kits to complete, three who need meds, one arm to splint…wanker refuses to go to the A&E…and, unfortunately, you'll have to clean up that _play-a_."

"Stop it."

David quickly sashayed out of the room with a hoot.

Sliding into the chair David vacated, Jo logged into the HIS and mentally planned her night. Six months in the city and at the job and she was finally feeling comfortable and competent. The flat search would have to wait until Chelsea arrived. Hopefully, by then, most of the crowd would be released, those staying would sleep, and no one else would break the law.

And pigs would probably fly.

**-o-o-o-**

"Really, Lestrade, I only forward these ridiculous emails to you on the insistence of my dear _brother_," Sherlock nearly spat the word, "I don't actually expect you to read them and formulate your own opinion. I've already done that for you. Don't embarrass yourself by pretending to analyse them outside the parameters I've already imposed."

DI Lestrade shot the detective a baleful look over the top of his laptop, then continued to scroll through the information on the screen.

"He's concerned for your safety, yeah? For everyone's safety."

Sherlock heaved a long suffering sigh and stood from the chair in front of Lestrade's desk. This was pointless. Mycroft continued to rifle through his personal email despite his extra security measures, and he was forced to continue this charade of…whatever this was…week after week despite every protestation he could think of to end it. His brother was unmoved. Sherlock had even tried to be _nice_ at one point; desperation winning out over his better judgment. All attempts at bargaining, bullying and sulking had fallen on deaf ears.

"Moriarty may still be out there, Sherlock, and you'll be the first one he'll bait." Greg pulled off his glasses, finished reading.

Sherlock whirled on him.

"Don't be so ordinarily stupid, Lestrade, Moriarty is _dead_." Sherlock began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "In the last eight months since the broadcast there has been no indication that it was anything but an elaborate hoax. Well planned and executed by, likely, an intelligent prankster, but it was not the work of Moriarty. Despite the tabloid sightings of the man in every cafe, bank and museum in the world, there has been no further broadcasts. No criminal activities attributed to the man. No contact with anyone of any kind to indicate a mastermind is still at large. Nothing. It was an anomaly, and Moriarty is definitively dead."

He turned to stare at the detective, piercing blue eyes boring into Greg's head. "I was there, if you recall."

Greg leaned back into his chair, fingers lightly tapping the armrests. Thoughtful.

"John saw you fall three stories to your death on the paving stones, and yet, here you are," he said carefully, "Alive and up to your old tricks."

The consulting detective stiffened and snapped his mouth shut, nostrils flaring. He would not be baited by a mere police officer.

"I see your ex-wife has decided to take you back to court. Holding out on her, are you, Detective?"

"How - ?" Lestrade looked momentarily puzzled, then anger flashed in his eyes, "Don't change the subject, Holmes. You know very well there's a possibility Moriarty got off that rooftop alive."

Sherlock was undaunted. "You're wearing the brown Baumler suit that you believe Justice Whitechurch favors, your lucky necktie is in your overcoat pocket, and you've shined your shoes and actually shaved this morning. All indicators you'll be visiting the courts today, which, as a Detective Inspector, is not that unusual, but there are the smattering of papers on the corner of your desk which are obviously your attempts at whittling away at your expenses in order to save money. Admirable in its own right, surely, but for the bill of sale for your motorbike, which, if I remember correctly, you stated you'd sell before you'd 'hand it over to that harpy.'"

Greg fumed, "We're done here, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned smugly, then reached into his pocket to retrieve his chirping phone.

Lestrade looked back at his computer and pulled up his calendar, still stewing. "Good then. I'll have the email sent to forensics so you can - "

He looked up at the sound of retreating footsteps. The detective was gone.

"Bastard."

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><p><strong>**So much to come! Please stay tuned...oh, and review ;) **<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all who have read and enjoyed! The story slowly develops :) Please leave a review if you have a chance...I love the feedback!**

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><p><em>I know it's all getting away and it comes to me as no surprise<br>I know what's coming to me is never going to arrive  
>fresh blood through tired skin<br>new sweat to drown me in  
>dress up this rotten carcass just to make it look alive <em>

– _Nine Inch Nails_

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><p>"Sherlock?" John Watson peered about the living room as he came through the open door. "Sherlock, are you home?"<p>

A loud bang from the kitchen startled him and he cautiously approached the other room.

Sherlock stood next to the table in his bathrobe and lab goggles, mopping up what appeared to be a bloody mess all over the chair…and table…and floor… On closer inspection, John noted bits of tissue clinging to his friend's sleeves.

"Dare I ask?" John carefully checked the floor before stepping into the kitchen.

"Do grab some towels, John, and stop gawking like an idiot." Sherlock bent to pluck a chunk of unidentified matter off the floor. "I need to get these results recorded before my solutions cool."

John shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, well away from the blast radius. "Yeah, okay. I"ll just wait." He wrinkled his nose as a vaguely disturbing odor began to waft through the room.

"Um, actually, I could come back at a better time." He pulled one hand out to point at the opposite wall. "Seems you may be missing an eyeball over there."

Sherlock spun to drop an armload of dirty cloths and a few bowls into the sink and grabbed the misplaced orb off the wall with a satisfied grunt.

"Spectacular! Exactly what I hoped would happen." Sherlock tossed the eyeball into the sink with the rest of the mess.

"Of course it is," John mumbled, "God help us if any of your experiments would ever go _poorly_."

The detective now stood still with his hands steepled under his chin, index fingers lightly tapping his bottom lip. His eyes were closed and he seemed oblivious to the rest of the world. John watched him for a few minutes, shuffled in place, smacked his lips a few times, then finally cleared his throat.

"Eh, Sherlock?"

No response from the man. John raised his eyebrows and stared down at his shoes before trying again.

"Sherlock? Shouldn't you get those results recorded? Things are starting to look…congealed."

Sherlock opened one eye to look at the table. "And…done. All recorded and tabulated." He seemed to notice the mess on his sleeves and shrugged off his robe to throw it over the chair. Then seemed to notice John, yet again.

"Why are you in my kitchen, John?"

"Why am I…?" John cocked his head with a frown. "You texted _me_, Sherlock. Urgent, remember? '_…essential information…I need you here right away…_' So here I am."

Sherlock switched mental gears and recalled what had prompted him to contact John. "Right. Right. So I did." He glanced over at his experiment with some regret – it would have been nice to run a few more scenarios – then swept past his friend and into the living room.

"John, I need you to type," Sherlock said.

"You need me to…" John straightened. "You commanded me here to _type_ for you? _Type_? Do you realise the amount of grief I had to endure to come over here? Jane must be going through a growth spurt, she's feeding constantly which means Mary is stuck on the couch all day and I'm expected to complete all the chores. It's a bit of madness, actually. Sherlock, you can't - "

"Domestic problems bore me, John, especially yours," Sherlock said as he opened his laptop and held it out to the other man. "Please open up your email."

John's hands fisted at his sides and he stared daggers at his friend for a moment while taking a few deep breaths. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. Finally, John sighed, snatched the computer from Sherlock's hands and sat at the desk.

Sherlock ignored the muttered curses as John tapped open a few windows. An idea had struck him in the middle of the night and he had been awake since letting it percolate in his subconscious while he tasked his working brain with menial projects and experiments. A synaptic orchestral performance with an intellectual cadenza by dinnertime.

_Speaking of orchestras_…He strode over to pluck his violin off the bookshelves, he needed to work on the fingering for his newest composition. There was a tricky bit of positioning during the third movement and he still didn't have the harmonics just right. He tucked the instrument beneath his chin and had begun to run through the chord mechanics when John interrupted him.

"Are you _quite_ ready?" John had rested his chin on one hand and was glaring.

Sherlock studied his friend for a few quiet moments. Rumpled jeans and aged jumper with what appeared to be food remnants stuck to the collar, partially gray hair mostly mussed and looking a bit dirty, at least a 3-day stubble, no belt and, he peered more closely, mismatched socks. John appeared ill-put together and tired, and was decidedly ill-tempered. Sherlock ran through a mental list of causative factors, cross-checked with current social parameters, and came up with what he thought was an acceptable conclusion.

"Are you not having enough sex?" he asked.

John rocked back in his chair. "What?"

"Sex. Intercourse. Marital relations," Sherlock replied. "Your appearance and demeanor are characteristic of a married male who is not being carnally satisfied."

John just stared at him with an appalled look so Sherlock drew in a breath to explain further. John held up a hand to forestall him.

"I have a five-month old daughter at home and a wife who is intent upon breastfeeding a small nation. I can assure you that I am not - " John snapped his mouth shut and turned away from Sherlock. "No. Nope. Not having this conversation with you, Sherlock. Not today. Not any day. Now, if you want my assistance you have about thirty seconds to get to business before I walk out the door."

"I fail to understand why a child - "

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock recognised the tone and immediately shut up. Somewhere he had crossed the boundary of his friend's personal comfort zone and he was loath to further provoke the man. Anyone else would be subject to further questioning, but if he had learned anything during his years with John, he had learned when to quit. The man could sulk more mightily than Achilles, and Sherlock needed him right now.

"Yes. Well," Sherlock conceded. He waved the violin in the direction of the laptop. "Compose a message for the classifieds at The Telegraph, The Times, The Guardian…really, as many as come to mind. Broadsheets as well as tabloids, please." The violin was re-tucked under his chin and he squinted at the wall as his fingers again caressed the strings.

"I'll need to look up their addresses, you know, don't have them memorised," John muttered.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh. "Please, John, just type. Your nattering is prolonging the process." He smiled tightly in satisfaction as silence ensued. "Exactly as I say it."

John waited, fingers poised over the keys.

"The Storyteller is dead. Daddy never loved him. And I shall not dance to the ordinary."

There was prolonged silence once John stopped typing as he stared at the words. Sherlock continued to practise finger combinations on the violin, his free hand running an imaginary bow across the strings.

"You're _provoking _him?"

John sounded angry and Sherlock peeled one eye open to glance over at him. "I'm provoking no one."

John stood and placed his fists on the desk, leaning over the laptop towards Sherlock. "You are provoking the man who nearly ruined your life…my life! You want to deliberately antagonise a man who forced you to fake your own death in a checkmate of insanity and you expect me to _help_ you? You're more of a bloody idiot than I thought."

"Moriarty is dead, John." Sherlock matched his volume to John's and the shorter man straightened slightly, closing his mouth. Sherlock continued in a more muted tone, "He is unequivocally, without question, most assuredly, dead. And despite being reminded, rather more frequently than I would wish, that I am likely the most annoying person on the planet, I'm positive that even _I_ cannot provoke a corpse."

John gestured at the screen. "Then please explain to me what this will accomplish. Because if you truly believe Moriarty is dead, what purpose does this serve?"

Sherlock opened his mouth but John held up a finger. "If the word 'bored' is uttered even once, I will leave immediately."

Stepping over to the couch, Sherlock fell back onto the cushions and let the violin drop to his side. "It's not boredom, John, its _proof_. Proof that Moriarty is dead." He smiled smugly. "Proof that will allow my brother to return to his politico delecto and leash Lestrade to matters within his expertise, and leave me blessedly _alone_."

Sherlock repeated the word quietly to himself for a few minutes before John spoke again, now slumped back down into his chair and rubbing at one eyebrow.

"If Moriarty is dead, as you say, then these words are meaningless to anyone. No one will respond to your taunt."

"Exactly!"

John sighed, "Sherlock, I've had two hours of sleep and I smell like posset, you'll have to step me through this one."

Sherlock had stretched his arms out along the back of the couch and dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Surely, John, even your remedial science courses taught that a null result is still a valid result. There will be no response to my provocation, as you prefer to call it, therefore Moriarty _must_ be dead." He paused to look over his nose at his friend who still looked unconvinced. "If Moriarty were alive he would not, could not, resist joining the game. He would be compelled to play the next move lest he lose by default. He could not tolerate my dismissal…or risk obsolescence."

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall…" John muttered.

Sherlock picked his head up off the couch and grinned, "Now you've got it."

"I'm not convinced there aren't a few holes I could poke in your logic, and I'm sure this will somehow backfire majestically," John ignored Sherlock's pout, "so I'm putting you on notice right now before I send this."

"Oh please, you know I'm right."

John shot him a withering look. "If there is even a hint of a response you…_we_…will go directly to Lestrade _and_ Mycroft. You don't get to play St. George this time, Sherlock."

The detective had resumed plucking at his violin and hummed a distracted agreement.

"Sherlock," John said, more firmly. He waited until the man looked at him. "I cannot…" he swallowed, tried again, "I cannot do it again."

Sherlock stared solemnly at his friend for a few moments, then inclined his head. "Nor can I, John. Nor can I."

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

_Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap_

Jo timed her breathing to the sound of her footsteps hitting the pavement. _In. In. Out. Out_…it was a good pace tonight and her legs felt tired. The cold air stung her overheated cheeks, but it was a minor discomfort she barely noticed. She dodged into the street to avoid two large trash bins put out for the morning and splashed through a slushy puddle on her way back to the curb. The icy water on her ankles caused her to miss a breath, but she recovered quickly and continued down the poorly lit street.

Running in the dark was her preference.

The world was muted and muffled; grays upon shadows blending objects into the background so your eye focused on nothing in particular. The inanimate was unnoticeable, the animate, a fleeting presence quickly forgotten. Gone were the obligatory pleasantries and manners of the day; the night was aloof and silent, and nighttime souls felt akin to the invisible.

She found that maintaining a façade of civility during the daylight hours was exhausting and nearly impossible…it was better for everyone that she functioned at night. Less of humanity to tolerate.

Her GPS band chirped at her and Jo veered into a driveway to catch her breath. That last mile had been a fast one and she took an extra minute to stretch before starting her push-ups. Push-ups, squats and burpees and then she'd be off for the last mile of her workout. She had put herself through a particularly grueling two hour routine, bemoaning the dearth of hills in London proper but making due with stairs in a parking garage, and the last mile was going to be rough. She'd need a hot shower not only to warm up, but to soothe angry muscles…maybe soothe an angry soul.

No. Not today.

Good days were rare, and this last week had been a special hell. The two year anniversary had almost been harder than the first. The numbness was wearing off, she supposed, and the realization that the world will carry on regardless had made her furious this year. The world, and those within it who had no right to be. No right.

_Stop, Jo…focus_. _Take it down a notch._

Her soaked feet were getting cold and she threw herself into her burpees to keep the blood flowing.

The anniversary had been bad, but the icing on the cake had been her first day aloft with HEMS. The air rescue team responded to a fatal accident on the M20 near Folkestone and it had been messy. Normally she wouldn't have been bothered, but the victims…both too young, and her wound too raw.

Jo took a deep breath and shook out her arms. She couldn't dwell right now, she had to stay loose. The whole purpose of pushing her body to exhaustion was to keep herself from getting sucked back into the dark. Maintaining a physical edge somehow kept her on this side of sanity, and she had spent enough time hanging onto that ledge by her fingertips to not want to slide off now.

Grief is easy. Living is hard.

She reset her watch, stretched her quads briefly, then took off down the alley towards her apartment. One more mile, a hot shower and a warm breakfast. Time enough to psyche herself up to play nice and visit two more landlords about flats. She had to get out the apartment she was in before her roommate became a statistic. No more sharing, no more invasion of her privacy…and definitely somewhere quieter.

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><p><strong>**The little review box is right down there :) Thank you for reading!**<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

*****Many, many thanks to those who have reviewed! I'm so flattered :) I hope to continue to keep it interesting! *****

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><p><em>Here we go now<em>  
><em>Home...<em>  
><em>Home...<em>  
><em>Home...<em>

_– Jane's Addiction_

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><p>Jo cradled the steaming cup of coffee in her hands as she stared down the street towards the brownstone of interest. The Londoners, bless their little hearts, would sit outside in just about any weather, and as such, she had parked herself at one of the two tables still set up outside the bakery on the corner. Hot coffee and an egg sandwich warmed her insides, but her ass was freezing. She had foregone her usual pre-dawn run in order to finish an overdue commissioned piece and her muscles never got to warm up. The quilt had to be shipped tomorrow though, so putting it off any longer was not going to work. <em>Last one for a while<em>, she promised herself. The piece would net her a hefty sum from the L.A. client and she was free to create for her own sake for the time being. If at all. She had been ignoring the emails from her agent for quite a while now, her heart just wasn't in it anymore.

She grunted sadly. Sam would've been speechless.

"_Mom," she could see his curly black hair and laughing eyes, "I swear, there's more fabric in this house than in an Asian sweatshop." _

"_Well, if you and your brother would build me that shelving unit you keep promising I'd be able to control it a bit." _

_Sam rolled his eyes and began to rearrange her fabric blocks on the design wall. "Remy's too busy with his geek friends to help me."_

"_Yes, it's terrible that he has friends to hang out with. Just horrible," she replied._

_Sam glared at her sideways. "My language arts teacher says sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, you know."_

_She wrinkled her nose and repositioned a seam. "Your language arts teacher is now on my list."_

_The boy had now lined all the blocks up along the bottom of the wall. "Can't you tell Remy to help me? How many times can you possibly watch the Lord of the Rings anyways? I can't build the thing by myself."_

_He had crossed over to whining and Jo grinned at him with a quote. "'I'm glad to with you, Sam, here, at the end of all things.'"_

_Sam thumped his forehead against the wall. "Et tu, Maman?"_

"Are you finished with that?"

The voice jolted her out of the reverie. A waiter had appeared and was gesturing at her half eaten sandwich. Her stomach turned and she gestured to the man to take the plate, appetite gone for the day now anyway. She hated it when the memories slammed into her like that. Yet another reason to keep away from the fabrics.

The coffee was starting to cool and Jo resumed her study of the Baker Street house to take her mind off her sons…or at least distract it for a functional while.

It seemed to be a peculiarly attractive spot to take pictures. The street itself didn't strike her as particularly touristy; restaurants, record stores, some cafes and attorneys…no local folklore or celebrity hangouts that she was aware of. But about every ten minutes someone would stand in front of the place and get their picture snapped. Odd. But, really, other than that it seemed to be a rather ordinary street. And she could see Regent's Park just down a ways. Definitely a plus. Better than the concrete jungle she was ensconced in now.

She had come across the classified in a West London lifestyles site. The last few nights at the MET had been blessedly quiet and she had been determined to find a new flat. So far the offerings had ranged from ridiculous to rat-infested and she was running out of hope. Her Soho arrangement was on her final nerve and she was getting desperate. If it was clean, dry and affordable she was going to take it. The price was better than she expected for this side of town. Slightly suspicious…maybe the neighbors played loud music at night?…not a problem, really.

A man walked out of the house right as she stood from the table. About her age, dressed like every other day-worker in London; gray coat, oxford and slacks with brown shoes. He lit a cigarette and jogged across the street through a break in traffic. She thought he looked vaguely familiar…_hmmm_. With all the people she saw come and go at the MET and Royal London the faces must start to blend together. A gray, foggy, Dali-esque quilt of humanity.

Jo pulled her backpack onto one shoulder, tossed the coffee cup in the trash and headed towards 221 Baker Street with a copy of the classified and her notebook in hand. She'd give the landlord about twenty minutes to sell the deal and then she was out. She had a 5 o'clock call at the hospital for pre-flight report and she still needed to get some sleep. Or run.

She thought about her boys and her mood darkened.

Probably just run.

_-o-o-o-o-o-_

Sherlock was in a black mood.

He sat stretched out and slumped in his chair in his pygamas, heels dug into the carpet, chin to chest. His fingers tapped a distracted rhythm into the upholstery. He could hear John puttering about the kitchen and the sound irritated him. John irritated him. The _world_ irritated him. So many little people puttering about on their little ordinary missions…it was beyond tedious. Little brains and little lives. Sheep. Lemmings.

He cocked his head slightly as he pondered the intelligence of both sheep and lemmings. Which was smarter? Both creatures would follow the herd to their deaths, but at least the lemming seemed aware of a preceding threat and would initially attempt a countermeasure. Sheep, on the other hand, were known to fall over in a dead faint at a mere shift in the wind.

Or were those goats?

_Bloody hell!_ He sat up swiftly and dropped his head into his hands.

"How do you stand it?" His question was flung into the empty room.

A moment later John peered around the corner. "I'm sorry?"

"The utter lack of creative intelligence on this planet has reduced me to contemplating the cognitive abilities of farm animals. Must everyone be so stupid?"

John looked puzzled. "Farm animals? What, like cows?"

"Lemmings!" Sherlock shouted, flinging himself back into a precarious lounge.

"Ehm, I'm not sure a lemming is a farm animal, exactly. Though I know of a chap up east that keeps alpaca." John scratched his head as he thought. "Not convinced there would be a profit in lemmings…"

"Do shut up, John."

John looked up, surprised, then studied his friend more carefully.

"Right," he said, moving back into the kitchen and taking a pot off the stove. "You're bored and Mrs. Hudson has confiscated your pistol again."

"She's a thief," Sherlock accused from his chair.

"She's a landlady who shelled out £2000 in plumbing repairs the last time you were bored." John heard the indignant muttering begin. "And you did _not_ repay her. Mycroft did."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air and continued to sulk. He had done the old bird a favour by nicking that rotting stack in the wall. How else would they have discovered the slow leak that kept the downstairs flat perpetually damp? Mrs. Hudson should've have paid _him_ a discovery fee.

He realised John was standing in front of him with a hot beverage held out as offering. He inhaled deeply. Coffee. Coffee was good.

John nodded approval and sat down after Sherlock took the cup. They each sat in silence for a few minutes and sipped. Traffic noise was picking up outside as work hours approached.

"Alright. If you're quite done brooding…" John watched Sherlock for a small sign of acquiescence before continuing. "I was glad Greg rang me this morning to stop by. At least _someone_ thinks I should be kept informed about the Moriarty emails."

Sherlock made a rude noise and picked up his cell phone to scroll through his newsfeeds. "Inconsequential drivel, John. Sophomoric attempts at public aggrandisement that should not even receive the attention Lestrade gives them."

"Still, it was interesting enough before he had to dash out." John glanced at his watch. "Damn. Speaking of dashing out, I need - "

"Grab your coat, John, we're going as soon as I'm dressed." Sherlock had pushed out of his chair and was striding towards the bedroom.

"You're going with?" John asked, "To paediatrics?"

Sherlock dressed in record time and was back, snatching his coat and scarf from the rack.

"Of course not. You're going with _me_, to the crime scene."

John donned his coat by reflex, caught up in his friend's whirlwind. "What crime scene?"

"The same one Lestrade was called to."

Sherlock handed him his cell and John quickly read as they hurried down the stairs.

_-o-o-o-o-o-o-_

He nearly collided with the woman on the steps as he and John exited the front door. She took a quick step backwards and Sherlock pulled up short. John, still looking at the phone screen, stumbled against his back with a curse.

"Bloody hell, man. Warn a person." John recovered and noticed the woman. "Oh, hullo."

Sherlock had no time for such courtesy, the crime scene would only be fresh for a short time and he wanted to arrive before the forensic team had picked over all the interesting bits. He quickly assessed the irritated woman blocking his way and frowned. Near his age, casually dressed to the point of sloppy, backpack and journal, no cosmetics, sour expression and a spot of animal hairs on the hem of her coat.

"Don't - " John began, recognising the expression.

Sherlock was undaunted.

"I've no time for insipid interviews with the tabloids," he said, wrapping his scarf more securely against the sharp wind. "Obviously you've attempted to make yourself appear a _normal_ person with second hand clothing and poor grooming, but from the fresh coffee stain on your knee it's telling that you've been sitting close by, lying in wait or gathering courage, to make an appearance. No doubt your notebook contains elementary questions you've decided are clever to ask, and you've been reading the recent journal article about my investigations in order to inadequately buttress your plebian knowledge of the subject."

The woman continued to stare at him with an undecipherable expression and he chalked it up to extremely slow grinding of the mental gears. He sighed. John tried to prod him down the stairs, but he was loath to turn his back on the press. Once bitten…

"You're older than the usual stringer looking for a story, so I can assume either the publication is resorting to new tactics or you've always lacked enough talent to succeed and continue to weed through your betters' trash in order to make attempts at reviving old news. It's likely you have few friends, no significant other and live alone with an abundance of cats."

"Sherlock!" John chastised, colouring in embarrassment.

"I've no _time_, John," he hissed, noting that the woman continued to regard him with an unflinching stare.

"Well now," she finally spoke and both men's eyes snapped back to her, "you're a whole new level of special, aren't you?" She left Sherlock with the question and turned to John.

"Is he yours?"

Sherlock wasn't sure at what point _he_ had become an object of study. He was sure he didn't care for it. Nor did he care for the reference to a kept simpleton. John was trying to form a reply.

"Right. Yes, sorry…" John stumbled and restarted, "We've had some spots of trouble with the press of late - "

"Now listen - " Sherlock spoke over John, but the woman interrupted them both.

"Is Martha Hudson in?" she asked.

Both men took a moment to switch mental tracks.

"What do you want with Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, suspicious. His original assumption may still hold true and he certainly did not want his landlady speaking to the tabloids.

The woman smirked. "Why, she has a cat I'm interested in adding to my collection."

Sherlock didn't recall a cat.

John elbowed him in the side. "Sherlock, I think she's here about the flat."

The shorter man nodded towards the classifieds tucked into the woman's notebook just as they heard a voice from the hallway.

"Boys, who are you talking to out there, and why are you letting all the heat out…oh!" Mrs. Hudson appeared and nudged John aside in order to address the woman. "You must be Ms. Wakefield. I apologise for my boys, they're obviously just leaving. Please come in, dear, and let me show you the place. I'm afraid it's not anything special, but it's just been redone, so not nearly as chill and dreary as it used to be…"

She ushered the woman into the hall and shut the door on the two puzzled men.

Sherlock's mind turned the encounter over a few times in the ensuing silence. He had an uneasy feeling that he had just been played.

"I don't like her," he said.

John was already down the steps and scanning traffic for a taxi. "You don't like most people. That's nothing new."

Sherlock joined him at the kerb and used his height to grab the attention of one of the hires. He opened the door as soon as the car rolled to a stop.

"A rude American. Stereotypical. Boring. I would've hoped Mrs. Hudson would let the flat to someone interesting." Sherlock was still mildly irked.

John piled in after him with a grin. "You were hoping she'd let the place to someone who would be fascinated with you, Sherlock. So you could use them to do your bidding."

They pulled into traffic and John continued, "Something tells me you don't want to row with that one though. Leave her alone."

Sherlock made a dismissive noise, the movement of the cab focusing his mind towards a potential case.

"Already forgotten, John. Corpses to study. Important work to do. Now let me think."

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><p><strong>***I don't believe Jo was impressed :) Stay tuned for more...and please continue to review!***<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

*****Oh my, I love the reviews! They're so exciting! I can't thank you enough for reading! Now we start getting into the nitty-gritty of it...or you could say the sticky bits :) We can't have Sherlock bored, can we?*****

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><p><em>Dreams of war, dreams of liars<em>  
><em>Dreams of dragon's fire<em>  
><em>And of things that will bite.<em>  
><em>Sleep with one eye open<em>  
><em>Gripping your pillow tight.<em>

_- Metallica_

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><p><em>He<em> was coming!

The chatter over the police radio confirmed his hopes. It had worked! All the planning, the painstaking attention to timing and labourious research was going to pay off.

The first donation (he refused to think of them as victims - they were providing a needed service to their fellow man) had served to pique the morbid curiosity of his fellow CSEs and raise eyebrows at The Yard, but this donation rang all the little bells of alarm as intended.

The crime scene was abuzz with so many of the glorious words he had hoped to hear: special incident group, rituals, patterns…consulting detectives.

The man shivered slightly and giggled. _Oh yes…oh YES_.

Clicking the last few frames of the initial scene, he left the camera to dangle around his neck and stepped over to the spilled rubbish bin near the body. He positioned himself carefully, a quick glance assuring him the other technicians were busy, leaned down and plucked two objects from the scattered trash, quickly pocketing them.

"Now you see it, now you don't," he sing-songed under his breath.

"Bloody hell!"

The bellow of the arriving DI had him straightening and pulling the camera back up to eye level.

_Just processing the crime scene. Just doing my job. Unnoticeable…as usual_.

_-o-o-o-o-o-_

Sherlock was out of the taxi before it stopped rolling, barely noticing John's deep sigh as he was left to pay the driver. He stood and tightened his coat against the deep chill, breathing deeply.

"Smell it, John?"

"The fish market and river shallows?" John replied, wrinkling his nose.

Sherlock glanced over at him. "No. The smell of a case. A real case. The hint of madness and danger on the wind. An olfactory bouquet of intrigue."

The detective was animated now, turning around and sniffing the air from different directions. John gave him a steady stare.

"I think you put a few too many things up that sniffer of yours, mate."

Sherlock huffed at him and turned to stride towards the police vehicles blocking the pavement near a small shop with a small sign: _See Spot Run_. John, of course, followed. They ducked under the crime scene tape and two uniforms took exception; John taking the time to stop and explain their presence as Sherlock continued into the doorway. Lestrade caught him there.

The DI backed Sherlock up a few steps then dug in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"I'm really not keen to see your show and tell," Lestrade said, tapping out a stick.

"I'm not in need of your supervision," Sherlock countered. "You may carry on with whatever menial tasks need your attention."

Lestrade cupped his hands around his lighter and glared at Sherlock over the flame. "Yeah, well, you _do_ need my permission. Not keen on giving that up either."

Sherlock recognised a look of impatience in the man's eyes, yet also caught a flicker of relief. He was going to have to take a moment to play Lestrade's game.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and concentrated. The squawk of the police radios continued as his gaze slowly scanned the busy scene. Not quite as many personnel as he would have thought, given the advertised nature of the crime, but, as he caught John's small nod toward a cluster of people outside the yellow tape, the usual scavengers had gathered. A murmur of conversation heard here, a cursed exclamation caught over there, and then Sherlock turned his head back toward the Detective Inspector.

"This is the second victim found displayed in this manner in the last two weeks, you've no clues as to motive for the first and this one seems completely unlinked, your investigative units are short staffed due to budgeting wars in Parliament and there is additional pressure of promotional rumor amongst the lead detectives jostling to handle the case." Sherlock saw Lestrade wince slightly and knew he needed just a bit more turn of the screw. "Not to mention word from above to keep mum and prevent this from leaking to the public and inducing panic and rumour. It would seem that seeking the services of a Consulting Detective early on would be a prudent choice."

Lestrade shook his head sadly with a dry chuckle. "Prudent. Right."

The detective took one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it to the side of the building. He rubbed his jaw and stared tiredly past Sherlock at the gathering crowd.

"It's likely far too late to stop this from leaking to the press, but let's try to keep it from becoming a circus, yeah?" He stepped aside to let Sherlock and John pass.

"I abhor a circus," Sherlock drawled before ducking into the doorway.

"You _are_ the circus," Lestrade muttered.

He set his hand briefly on John's shoulder as the man passed him. "It's a nasty bit of business in there."

John nodded and disappeared through the doorway.

_-o-o-o-o-o-_

Sherlock stood completely still as he mentally catalogued the crime scene; victim on her back facing east, right handed, watch and costume jewelry rings still on her left arm_. Robbery not motive, direction may be significant, must get photographs of prior scene_. Fully clothed, black silk cloth covered her face, limbs positioned in repose_. No obvious sexual assault, possibly guilt…shame…victim known to attacker?_ Throat deeply slit, large pool of congealed blood beneath victim. _Not the manner of death, no arterial spray, only slow pooling_.

"She was not killed here," he said, to no one in particular, and walked a few meters past the victim, carefully avoiding a pattern drawn onto the floor.

"No, definitely not," John agreed. "But not too far from here either. She had to be still warm to bleed that much post-mortem." He crouched down at peered at the body from a different angle. "I'd like to see under that scarf."

Sherlock didn't acknowledge his friend as he continued his assessment. A pattern depicting two snakes surrounding the victim was drawn onto the linoleum using…he leaned down studied the tracing with his magnifying glass. Sampled a bit with his fingertip. Sniffed it.

John saw him. "Sherlock, don't…"

"Salt," Sherlock pronounced after touching it to his tongue.

"One of these days it's going to kill you," John said, "and I'm going to leave you to flop alongside the body."

"Not likely," Sherlock muttered, again slowly circling the victim and pattern.

"Which?" John asked. "Because I can guarantee you the second."

"Pictures, John. I need pictures before the body is moved."

In addition to the salt drawings, Sherlock noted melted candle stubs and some scattered coins around the fringe of the pattern. One candle, positioned very near the crown of the victim's head, had singed her hair. _Ritual? Staged performance? Performance for the perpetrator…or victim? Or an audience? _He now balanced precariously on the balls of his feet between the body and the drawing, leaning down to study the wound and the victim's clothing. Smudge of dirt on the blouse._ From here? Or where she was killed? _Fingernails looked clean but a fresh abrasion on the outside of one forearm._ Unclear if there was a struggle…need to see the body wholly._

John's camera flashed as he took a quick series of photographs.

"No! No, no, no!" A white-bootied forensic tech came through the doorway with the protest. "You are _not_ taking pictures, and you are _leaving_. Who let you in, anyway?"

"Anderson." Sherlock's voice dropped into a disapproving bass. "I see they let the bats out of the belfry again."

"That was a temporary leave of absence, Holmes, as you're fully aware. I've got my department back…and I'm supposed to be admitting authority here." Anderson moved to stand between Sherlock and the victim, hands on hips. "Out. Now. And don't touch anything."

"Too late," John muttered with a smirk.

Sherlock walked past Anderson and continued to peruse the scene, purposefully running his fingers along a treadmill type device near one wall. Anderson squeaked.

"What is this place?" Sherlock asked, now looking at the divided areas containing an assortment of playthings.

"A doggie gym," Anderson answered.

John made a face. "A doggie gym? You mean, a fitness centre for your dog?"

"Yes, yes," Anderson said, impatient. "All of Fido's flab can be melted away with three visits per week for only the price of a small country. It's the new trend apparently."

John and Sherlock shared a disbelieving look.

"Here, look," Anderson said, trying now to bargain with the duo in order to get them to leave. "We've got pictures of the scene that I'm sure I'll be instructed to share with you, I will forward any subsequent photographs of the body before it is released to the pathologist, and we've already started a search on recent voodoo activity in London - "

"Voodoo?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, voodoo." Anderson looked smug. "Or did you not deduce that from the salt drawing?"

Sherlock sighed. "The serpent is the oldest and most widely depicted symbol in cultural history. It has been used by the most ancient of societies, including Native Americans, Mayans, Sumarians, the Hindu, sub-Saharan tribes…there have even been drawings of serpents found amongst the artifacts of the Norse and Celts. The serpent can represent anything from birth to death, fertility to famine, sexual promise to symbolic rape. A powerful creature in myth, and still capable of inducing fear and panic today. Even now, here, this representation of the serpent is possibly meant to lead our thoughts down dark alleyways." Sherlock wandered over to the corner to take in the whole scene at one time before continuing.

"A serpent traced in salt around a murder victim. With some candles thrown in to boot. How wickedly quaint! Is this truly a worshiping ground for some underground religion, or a decorative red herring? And if true ceremonial detritus, why pick voodoo? Why not Santeria? Ancient Judaism? Aztec Sun worship…or any other of a handful of pagan religious sects which may utilise ritual?" He took two more pictures, then interrupted Anderson's sputtered protest.

"Have you refined your forensic investigative techniques so keenly that you can discard all other equally likely theories?" He turned to a red-faced Anderson. "I think not."

Just then a photography tech came through the door and approached Anderson with a clipboard.

"Just need a signature for transport, sir."

Anderson grabbed the clipboard and John took that as their cue to leave.

"C'mon, Sherlock, let's make ourselves scarce, shall we?" He prodded the taller man until Sherlock reluctantly headed to the door.

Sherlock grabbed the door jamb and turned back to Anderson for one more quick question. "Where did the first murder occur?"

"An abandoned fishery," Anderson replied, slightly distracted and still angry. "Good-_bye_, Holmes."

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><p><strong>***Ah...the game is afoot! Poor Anderson...Sherlock never lets up. Of course, the guy leaves himself wide open...***<strong>

*****Please leave a review! Would love to know what you think, thank you.*****


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